Dark Hunter: The Zeta Cartel Novels, #4

By AJ Adams

Rip Marston is a merciless killing machine. After a decade of hunting his prey, Rip joins the Zetas. The job offers protection as he practices his dark arts, but the Cartel are wary of the monster in their midst. Finding a badly beaten unconscious girl, Rip sees an opportunity. Posing as her saviour will please the cartel - and provide him with his very own helpless captive.

 

Isabella Maria Franco is beautiful, wilful and used to making hard choices. Having grown up in the comfortable but lethal embrace of the Gulf cartel, she rejected a life of violence. But when a dark presence from her past returns, her world falls apart. Betrayed and beaten, she escapes, only to find herself in a living nightmare. Surrounded by her enemies, one man stands between her and death. Terrified, she embraces his darkness, an action that leads to consequences neither anticipated.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ellen Whyte
• Release date: Jan 1, 2021
• ISBN: 9781393430766

AJ Adams

AJ Adams writes twisted love stories set in the violent world of the Cartel, Camorra, Belial's MC and Prydain. All AJ Adams novels are self-standing and although some feature the same families, you need not read them all - but it would be awesome if you did. If you enjoy these novels and want to stalk, please know that AJ is the pen name for Ellen Whyte. Ellen married her best friend and moved to the tropics where they are living their own Happily Ever After. When she's not writing, she's cooking and pandering to her rescue cats Target, Swooner and Tic Tac.

Book preview

Chapter One: Rip, Ten Years Before

Leonard Greasy Sykes couldn’t resist the races, and it was the death of him. Greasy had been hiding from me ever since I’d killed the Becker brothers, moving from one safe house to another, but I knew his weakness. It was only a matter of time before I got to him.

I went to Epsom and then Cheltenham and finally found him in a little flat in Berkshire, a mile away from Ascot Racecourse. The silly bugger changed his name, but he’d not thought to take it further. Mind you, Dawson, his best mate, tried plastic surgery and moving to Dublin. It hadn’t saved him, either.

I staked out his flat and made my arrangements. Then I followed Greasy to the track, him dressed in a hat and dark glasses and me with my cheeks padded, a fake tattoo on my neck, and a week’s worth of stubble. I’d topped up the ghastly disguise by dying my hair red and wearing ripped jeans, a bright yellow tee, and a red and white scarf proclaiming my undying love for Arsenal.

Greasy was nervous as fuck, but after glancing at me, decided that death could never look like a traffic light. His bad.

The disguise was eye-watering, but he clocked the scarf and instantly recognised a fellow football fan. Arsenal? They’re the boys!

Best football team in the world, mate.

He was still nervy, but two minutes later, I was slapping him on the back as Red Lightning streaked in a full length in front of the others. I won! I freaking won! I showed Greasy my ticket. Twenty to one. Fucking A, right? I put a tenner on.

I’d bet on every single horse, but as Greasy didn’t know that, he was impressed. Jesus, you must be the only fucker who bet on that nag!

I tapped my nose conspiratorially. I’ve got the inside scoop.

Greasy forgot his caution. I was a fellow football fan and a whiz at the horses. I was solid gold. The damn fool. What? How? Who?

Right, I shouldn’t have said. Pretending reluctance reeled him in.

Got a tip for the next race?

Look, erm, I have to— As I pretended to be shy, the next lot were off. Yes! As Stella’s Beauty won, I pulled out another ticket. Again, I’d bet on every horse running. Another tenner. But as he was the favourite, it’s not much.

Now it was Greasy hanging on to me, desperate to find out my secret. Let’s have a pint to celebrate.

Well, I could do with a beer.

Greasy finally remembered he was supposed to be hiding. I have a fridge full back in the house. Have one on me?

Score. The damn fool took me home with him, and as soon as he entered the hallway, I was behind him, putting him in a sleeper hold.

What the fu—? Greasy was still trying to figure out what the hell had happened when he went out.

Duct tape and stockings secured him, and a laundry sack concealed him neatly. I was dragging him out the back door and into my van that was parked in the back alley in less than three minutes. A quick blast of a stun gun put Greasy under long enough for me to drive out to the quiet barn I’d found.

When Greasy came to, he was flat on his back, spread-eagled, with his wrists and ankles cuffed to a bed frame.

My name’s Marston, I told him.

He didn’t speak because I’d taped his gap shut, but his eyes widened. Not surprising really. He’d known someone was after him, his mates dying spectacular deaths one by one was a dead giveaway, but he’d not known who. In his business, he’d made a lot of enemies.

Oh dear, Greasy. Did you forget about me?

His face said he had. It should’ve made me angry, but I just wasn’t feeling it. Dark helplessness and flaming pain consumed me. Simple anger was beyond me.

I contemplated my victim. I haven’t forgotten about you. In fact, you are all I’ve been thinking about for last six months.

He tugged at the cuffs.

There’s no point in struggling. You’re mine now.

That’s when he saw past the makeup and got a look at the real me. For a moment he stiffened, and then he bucked, ripping at the bonds. The metal cuffs tore his skin, but he was too terrified to notice.

Why are you so surprised? You created me.

The frame rocked, but I wasn’t worried. I’d bought it brand new, and it was solid. He’d have to tear off a limb to break free. Gazing at him, the helplessness retreated. A twinge of power bubbled up. This was it. The monster that was hidden deep inside me was rising. The searing pain muted, driven out by the pleasure of revenge. The dark night was lit with sparkles.

I caught you and now you’re mine, I told him. You lost the game and you’ll have to pay.

His muffled cries were unintelligible, but it didn’t matter because I saw the fear in his eyes. His panic ran through me, blasting away the remnants of pain. The desire for revenge rose. He needed to suffer.

Your crew’s gone, I told him. Dawson, Fielding, and the Becker brothers are all six feet under.

Greasy already knew, their deaths sent him into hiding, but he tried his level best to escape his own fate.

You should’ve left my family alone, I told him.

The eyes bulged in fear. A little moan told me he regretted his mistakes.

I ripped the tape off his mouth. Instantly, he tried to deal. It was an accident!

Hardly. You came to steal the Picasso.

It wasn’t me!

Don’t lie to me.

I patted my pockets and produced my kit. A ring gag and a dildo. At the sight, Greasy panicked. Wait! You don’t understand!

Shut up. Pretending not to know how the ring gag worked got me what I wanted.

I was on a job! I can tell you who sent me!

I’d killed Fielding and the Becker brothers without realising they might have given me intel, and Dawson expired before he could spill the beans. I needed Greasy to talk, but I didn’t want him knowing he had a bargaining chip.

The ring gag was spiked and thoroughly nasty looking. Let’s not waste time chatting, I shoved it against his face, just to scare him and then fumbled artistically, muttering, Bloody thing.

Greasy didn’t even try to bargain. Sokolov gave the order!

I had a name. And it was one fuck of a name. Sokolov? You mean Andrei Sokolov? The Polish billionaire who sponsored the open-air Shakespeare festival last year?

Greasy nodded furiously. He went to the house and saw the picture. But your dad wouldn’t part with it.

The Picasso was a legacy from my great-grandfather, William Marston, who’d been given it by Pablo Picasso himself back in the 1930s. It hung in our ancestral home, right alongside the Chippendale furniture and French silver.

We Marstons go back all the way to the days of King Charles II when actors, or rather thespians as they were called so grandly then, were as prized as dukes. The seventeenth-century James Marston was presented with our home, Marston Hall, the Victorian Marston built up a nice little fortune from a chain of theatres, and twentieth-century William endowed us with the Picasso.

Sokolov always gets what he wants, Greasy whined. You should have given it to him.

He’d killed us all over a painting. Everything gone because of some paint daubed on a canvas. Suddenly sick with anger, I shoved the ring gag into place. My victim tried to squall, but ring gags work in a funny way: you moan and groan but they stifle big sounds.

Greasy’s eyes were bulging again. He understood the revelation hadn’t won his reprieve. Is it a comfort, Greasy, knowing Sokolov is next?

From his wheezing gasps, it wasn’t.

Now let’s see. I pretended to ponder. You planned it. Dawson disabled our security, and the Becker brothers were the muscle. Fielding took the painting out of the country.

He sucked in rasping breaths. He remembered the others had not gone out easily.

You staged a home invasion. My father had a heart attack when the Beckers beat him, I reminded Greasy. Fielding said it was your idea to tape my sister’s mouth up. You wanted to stop her crying, right?

I’d been in London, enjoying my first proper job, a supporting part in a West End production of The Lion King, when the police contacted me. I’d gone into shock, unable to process the horror of losing my family. The numbness had been a blessing. Once it retreated, helplessness rushed to fill the void, bringing along a seed of pain that had grown steadily until it consumed me unrelentingly.

Now, seeing Greasy, the architect of that horror, rage surged, banishing the agony, just as it had when I’d hunted and killed his team. You watched them die.

The coroner had been quite explicit: both my father and sister could have been saved if the robbers had simply picked up the painting and left. But they’d stayed and looted the rest of the house.

When you finally got out, the ripped wiring caused a short that started a fire. I was seeing my home again, razed by the flames that had torn through the building. By that time, Dad and Ginny were dead. But Mum was burnt alive, and so was Davy.

My little brother, born on Christmas Day, had been only a few weeks old.

He was asleep in his crib upstairs. They didn’t even find his bones; the fire was too hot.

At that, Greasy whimpered. I welcomed his terror. The monster of darkness deep inside me flexed, the hunger for revenge mounting. Only his screams would give me satisfaction. He had to pay.

The Becker brothers went easy because they were my first, I told him. I whipped them raw, and then I drowned them. It only takes two minutes to dunk a head in a bucket, but I guess I mistimed it because we had a couple of dozen goes before it actually worked.

Yes, Greasy was terrified.

Dawson went quick, a dicky heart, I think. I was halfway through taking off the third finger when he croaked.

It seemed appropriate, taking away the digits that were the source of his talent.

Fielding was the best. I didn’t think he’d survive my attentions. He made no noise when I finally blinded him, but as it turned out, he was still alive when he went into the chipper.

Greasy knew this would be nasty, and I would not disappoint him.

You’re special, I told him. You planned it, so you get a game all of your own.

Ginny had suffocated slowly, and now I would make her murderer suffer the same fate ten times over. The punishment would fit the crime.

Let’s see how long you can hold your breath.

I gripped his hair and tipped back his head. A quick shove with the dildo had his tongue lodged in his throat. I taped it in and watched Greasy gulp and panic—until he realised he could breathe through his nose.

The triumph in his eyes! He thought he was outsmarting me! I almost laughed. Deep breath, I said to him. And then I pinched his nose shut.

Greasy bucked better than Stella’s Beauty. But I was always strong, and there was no way he could shift me. I was on top of him, holding him down so I could see into his eyes. The fear streaming from him set me alight. This was absolutely right. The pain that haunted me day and night vanished. The monster of revenge dominated. This was relief. This was justice.

I let him think he was going out, and then I released him. Take a breath, mate.

He was purple, snorting like a racehorse and sweating like a pig, but he was alive and well. Despite his pallid skin and beer gut, Greasy was tough.

Slow suffocation, the coroner said, I reminded Greasy. Don’t worry, I won’t let you die. At least, not yet. We’re going to spend some time remembering Ginny.

Greasy didn’t like it one bit, but I relished the payback. This man had destroyed us; killing him was nectar to my soul.

The power of revenge and satisfaction gushed. Deep breath!

Ginny lasted several hours, the coroner had said, and I coaxed Greasy through teatime, dusk and pub closing. When the clock approached midnight, his eyes were bloodshot, his mouth full of blood from the spiked gag, and he’d shat himself. But I’d been careful, and he was properly alive and conscious.

In a few minutes, I’ll be eighteen, I told Greasy. Maybe we should celebrate and make a long weekend of it? At that, his eyes bulged. No, maybe not, I agreed. I mean, this barn is quiet, but it’s not deserted.

It was ridiculous, but that hope flared again. Greasy thought that if the farmer popped round at dawn, he might survive.

I think we’ve done our bit to remember Ginny, I told him. Now, I thought it over, and I think Dad would suggest we talk about Mum and Davy.

For a moment, Greasy lay totally still. Then he convulsed again, the metal cuffs ripping into his skin.

Come now, I chided him. You started this, Greasy. You can’t quit playing the game just because you’re losing.

The barn was loaded with straw and the usual loose bits of board you find on farms. I collected it all and pushed it in neat stacks around the bed frame. Greasy bounced about, blood dripping from his wrists and ankles as he realised what was in store.

We had an open fireplace, I told him, so setting up isn’t a problem. I showed him the firelighters. I brought a bag of charcoal along too. Just in case.

I looked out of the barn door. It was drizzling steadily. Nobody would be out and about on a wet night. Setting small fires meant the metal bed frame would heat slowly. The thick beams around us would catch eventually, and the old wood would flame nicely.

A roast takes a good, slow fire, I explained to Greasy. Mum and Davy can’t have lasted more than half an hour, but the way this works, you should have the full hour. More, maybe.

I removed the gag.

Wait! You can’t do this! Greasy talked fast, spitting blood in his haste to convince me to have mercy. But the monster was in control, demanding justice and delicious revenge. I have money!

I lit the pocket-sized heaps. I don’t need money.

Sokolov. I can help you get to Sokolov.

Don’t need help there either.

Dad was a noted Shakespearean actor, and Mum featured in every BBC period play for twenty years. They were popular in their own genres and rarely worked out of them. But like great grandfather William, I had a gift for transformation. My ability to morph into a part snared Greasy and his gang, and it would help me get Sokolov.

I wasn’t concerned about crossing the continent or the prospect of hunting him down. I would lure him into coming to me, just as I’d convinced Greasy to invite me home, and then I’d kill him. I was out for justice, and it would be bloody.

But first I had to finish the job at hand. The old wood was hard, but it was dry too. The fires were coming along well, helped by the firelighters and the charcoal briquettes.

Greasy saw the flames flare and turned frantic eyes on me. You don’t understand. Sokolov isn’t who you think he is. He’s not just a poncy rich bastard funding plays; he’s mafia. He’s got a gang all of his own.

I fanned the fires a little and topped all six with a little more charcoal. The heat was already intense. The metal bed frame would soon warm up.

Sokolov is untouchable! Greasy shrieked.

I got to you, didn’t I?

You stupid bastard! If you kill Sokolov, his brothers will be after you. And then his cousins. And then their cousins. They’re the Bratva, for God’s sake! You’ll have to kill them all!

I looked into his bloodshot eyes. Sounds like a mission to me.

The fires blazed, licking at the metal frame. A wave of heat blasted out, driving me back a little. You can’t do this! Greasy bucked like a madman. For pity’s sake!

As if there were any pity left in me. Love, joy and gentleness were out of my reach forever. All that remained was all-consuming pain and the monster that banished it.

I stood back and watched the flames rise. Greasy shrieked and struggled. No-no-no-no! He jerked at the cuffs, blood running down his wrists and ankles. Oh-God-oh-God-oh-God!

I’d promised him scream for scream, cry for cry. If I could have ripped his heart out and made him eat it, I would have. His pain was a mirror of my suffering, but I stood silent.

Mercy! For God’s sake! Have mercy! As the metal frame heated, he wailed. Help-help-help! The fire spread, licking over the floor and reaching the big beams. There was hardly any smoke. Greasy wouldn’t be able to pass out on friendly fumes. I’d done a perfect job.

His screams tore through the air, bouncing off the walls, and practically shredding my ears. I stood back, taking it in. Power ran through me, fuelling the heady sensation of control. This was righteous. This was justice.

I tended the fires, adding coals and fanning those that threatened to smoulder rather than flame. The temperature rose steadily, moving from hot to intense. Greasy was melting in front of me, his sweat actually steaming as it flowed off him into the burning air.

Eventually, it was time. His skin was blistering. The shrieks were continuous. I checked my watch. Midnight. Bye, Greasy.

I stepped outside and drove the van to the bottom of the lane. The barn was in a dip, invisible unless you came looking for it. With the mild rain dampening the fields, there was no threat of accidental night ramblers calling in the fire or of it spreading. But thanks to the location, the cries floated over the fields, echoing in the darkness.

Greasy screamed for the entire hour. His shrieks faded and died just before the roof caved in. It would smoulder all night long, burying my victim under the burning tinder. The fire was so hot that I doubted they’d have enough left to identify him.

As he went out, the rage and desire for vengeance vanished, leaving me empty. Welcoming the numbness, I got into the van and drove to London. Back in my own digs, I watched the moon fade as the sky lightened. Then, seeing it was my birthday, I went to the fridge and helped myself to a beer.

Back when we’d been happy, I’d planned to spend my birthday at home. At the memory, the pain began to wash back. Soon it would grow and overwhelm me again.

I cracked the beer open, and as I drank it, I contemplated my next move. Sokolov had set in motion the events that destroyed my family. He’d have to suffer the penalty. The monster inside me flexed, blanking the burgeoning pain as my intent focused.

Sokolov had a thirst for fine things. He would be inundated with dubious offers. How would a man like him think? I tried to fill the role of the mafia prince, rich and spoilt but suspicious. The answer came soon enough. A whisper of a rare treasure, not for sale but open to theft, would be an irresistible lure.

As the sun inched over the horizon, my trap took shape. I finished the beer and tossed it into the bin.

There was no justice, it was too late for that, but I could have my revenge. The lust for retribution swept through me, setting my soul on fire. I would hunt them down, and I would kill them all.

Chapter Two: Morgan

Barnyard was still quiet, transitioning from happy hour to the after-dinner crowd. It meant we could snag one of the better booths and have a gossip before the boys turned up. And the girls had plenty to tell me.

Christy and Dale are getting hitched! Emma exclaimed. They’re having the wedding at Notre Dame. It’s going to be epic.

I heard, Lucy replied. Isn’t it cute how they set up their wedding invites through a Facebook group?

Well, seeing we’re all living on top of each other, it makes sense, Emma pointed out. Why post cards, right? Now there’s more money for the party.

Sounds terrific. I smiled as if I knew all about it, but I wasn’t fooling anyone.

It’s a very small wedding, Emma said quickly.

Tiny, Lucy agreed.

Sure! And anyway, I’m not close to either of them. I put a brave face on it, but we all knew what was going on.

Love the dress, Emma said smoothly. Aritzia?

Neiman Marcus. I was relieved to change the subject. They were having a spot sale, twenty percent off, and I’ve been eyeing this for weeks.

It’s gorgeous, Lucy sighed.

As they examined the dress, admiring the rich turquoise cloth with its boldly cut top and sweep of the skirt that would billow as I danced, the sting of being left out yet again lessened.

I didn’t know Christy well, but we’d all been in school together, and Dale had been in my year. We’d also seen each other in Barnyard, and I’d chatted with them as much as Emma and Lucy.

Still, you can’t force people to like you, and there’s no point in moaning about it. So I smiled to salvage my pride. I would never admit it hurt and comforted myself with my new dress and the manicure I’d splurged on.

Turquoise nails, Lucy grinned. You rarely bother, but when you do, you clean up nice.

Give with the left hand, take with the right, I kidded her. It’s all right for you—you step out of the office and you’re good to go. I need to bathe in turpentine just to get rid of the first layer of grease.

Oh, and in case you think I’m a fry-cook, I’m a mechanic. A damn good one, too. But the term grease-monkey is apt. Trust me on that. Normally I’m clean and presentable when I go out, but that’s about as far as it goes.

I’m okay-looking, but you’d never find me on a racing calendar. I’ve got dark blonde hair, cut jaw-length so it’s easy to keep neat, plain grey eyes and my body is athletic, meaning I’m pretty much straight up and down.

But that night I was tricked out like a country bride. Thanks to a great bra, I even had some cleavage. Not bad for a chick with a mouthful of boob and a bare handful of ass.

Hey, chica. Wow! Love the dress! Eddy Walters, once upon a time with the high school swim team and now making a career for himself in insurance, grinned down at me. From the beer breath, he’d been there all happy hour. He eyed me up, I was thinking, want to go out?

Yes. Finally! A date! Sounds wonderful. When?

Eddy shrugged. How about now? We can pick up a bottle of tequila on the way home.

For a moment I didn’t get it. But then his hand was on my ass, fingers rubbing meaningfully. So when you said out—?

Oh. You want me to buy you dinner first?

Lovely. I was supposed to go back with him and put out in return for a couple of shots of tequila.

Before I could blast him, Emma was all over it. Fuck off, Eddy!

Lucy too. Yeah, beat it, asshole.

Hey! I was just asking! Eddy went off, sulking.

Don’t pay any attention.

He was always an asswipe.

We’d been tight since school, and I loved them like sisters. He was the first in his family to be born without a tail. I’m ignoring him.

Chica. Poncho Calderon was at my elbow. Was that fuck Eddy Walters bothering you?

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Emma and Lucy had frozen. They were wide-eyed and trying to look as small as possible. If they could have, they would have turned invisible.

Poncho had an ugly look in his eye. One word from me and Eddy would be a smear on the sidewalk. God help me, but I was sorely tempted. It would have served the creep right.

It was Emma and Lucy,

sitting like two scared rabbits that had me saying, Nah, but thanks for looking out for me.

Poncho nodded. Any time. He looked me over and smiled. You’re looking great! Hey, want to go to Angelo’s on Friday?

My favourite restaurant. And I really liked Poncho. But a date would bring me back into a life I didn’t want. I’d love to, but I have something on already.

He didn’t believe me, but he took it well. Sure. Some other time.

The second he was gone, the girls breathed again. We were out for a fun night but with Eddy and then Poncho, Emma and Lucy weren’t exactly having a blast. I had the uncomfortable sensation that just being near me was trouble. It was a depressing thought.

Maybe I should’ve said yes to Poncho. I hadn’t meant to say it aloud, but it was out there.

Lucy looked at Emma and Emma at Lucy. Unspoken thoughts flew about, and there was no need to translate or guess.

I said no more bad boys, I sighed. but I haven’t had a date in years.

You’re asking yourself what’s wrong with Poncho, right? Okay, well, let’s see. He’s six-foot-two, rugged-looking, with dark hair and dark eyes. He owns a home and drives an Acura Mdx. Sounds terrific, right? Except he’s an area coordinator for the Gulf cartel.

Right. And now you’re wondering why I was not running, screaming. It’s because I was born into it. My maternal great-grandfather was a made man, working for Salvatore Maranzano in New York in the days when the government pretended organised crime didn’t exist. My paternal great grandfather was with El Padrino, the Mexican crime lord, who made a million bucks running whisky and coke across the border during Prohibition.

All the men in my family followed in their footsteps. Yes, that’s right, four generations of made men. Basically, if there were such a thing as cartel blue blood, it’s me. Papa was with the Gulf, one of the biggest syndicates in the Americas, so I’d known Poncho forever.

Really? Poncho? Emma asked, horrified.

I don’t want to spend another night alone.

And that was the bottom line. I grew up with the cartel and thought nothing of it. It seemed normal to have relatives and friends in and out of hospital and jail. It was just how we were.

Also, we were super tight. When you’re in the cartel, you’re part of an enormous family. They watch over you, and you watch over them. It’s safe and cosy, like being cosseted in cotton wool. But when I was seventeen, my own family, my blood relatives, were ripped away in less than six months. I’m the only surviving member.

Having my world destroyed almost killed me. I had the crazies for a while, and when I finally climbed out of it, I had learned some hard lessons. Part of getting my act together was evaluating what I had. That led to the decision that I would not follow in the family footsteps.

The cartel means violence, even if you’re on the side-lines. I loved my family and friends, but I didn’t want a life that a bullet could destroy. So I stepped away from all I’d known and turned civilian.

Turning away from everyone I knew, refusing invitations to dinners, parties and every other kind of social event almost killed me. Apart from the personal heartache, the rejection went both ways. I’d disengaged as carefully as I could, but there were some bad feelings. But I did it, because the alternative was worse.

What I hadn’t realised was that the rest of the town would always see me as cartel. I’d hoped to edge myself into a safe non-violent life, just like Emma and Lucy, my besties at school, but people have a long memory. Even though I tried my damnedest, I hadn’t been accepted.

I stuck to my decision, but it was hard, and it was often lonely. What made it even more difficult was that Dawson Heights, an hour south of San Antonio, was Gulf territory. I hung out at a regular job with regular people, but the cartel was all around me. And truth be told, I missed being part of it. Even though my head told me that cartel life would eventually kill me and those I loved, my heart remembered how close we’d been and how good it felt.

Emma and Lucy didn’t understand.

Poncho is a killer, Emma whispered.

Lethal, Lucy added.

I’m not going to date him, I said defensively. It’s just that guys like Eddy get me down.

Right, I should explain that too. Dawson Heights is a hick town, and Barnyard can be rough when everyone is liquored up, but we dated like civilised human beings. At least, Emma and Lucy did. I didn’t, and it wasn’t because of the cartel connection.

That touch of the crazies I mentioned meant that I was drunk or high for the best part of two years. And yes, before you ask, I slept around as well. It was because I was dying inside, but it meant I had a rep.

It’s not fair, Lucy groused. So you were a bit wild once. So what?

Because in Dawson Heights, men who screw around are studs, and women are sluts, I reminded her.

I’m a slut, Tim appeared behind me, chuckling.

Me too. Jake, Tim’s brother, was there beside him.

Wow, you clean up nice! Tim said, surprised.

I forget how sexy you can be, Jake agreed.

I should say here that we worked together, so Tim and Jake thought of me as one of the boys. That was probably just as well, as Tim was dating Emma and Jake was with Lucy.

Roberto, our boss, pitched up too. Why are we talking about sluts?

Before I could stop them, Emma and Lucy had filled them in.

Fucking asshole! Tim spat.

Don’t you listen to him! Roberto said.

It really warmed me. I didn’t have many friends, but the ones I had were solid gold. I can’t change the past, and I can’t change how people see me. I accept it. I made my bed, and I’ll lie on it.

A rich baritone cut in. Oh, can I lie with you?

For a moment I didn’t recognise him. Then it hit me. Mitch! Where did you spring from?

He swept me up in a hug, solid and familiar. Hey, chica, looking good.

Mitch Cortez, my senior by two years at school, had been my first love. It had ended badly when I’d caught him with Angela Bedowski, but I wasn’t remembering that. I just took in the familiar craggy face with the glowing dark eyes and the big sparkling grin. The broad shoulders, lean waist and chunky legs were pretty good too.

Did you miss me? Mitch grinned.

Pooh, not at all! I stuck my nose in the air, just like I used to when we were dating. Exhilaration welled. I hadn’t seen Mitch since I was sixteen. He had graduated two years ahead of me and vanished. He was from the part of my life when I’d still been happy.

You haven’t changed a bit. Mitch was standing so close